


Flow

by sciencefictioness



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It is nothing special.That is what Geralt thinks when the mage utters the spell, magic battering him like a storm.  It is powerful, blowing back his hair and tugging at his clothes, but it is a simple thing.Speak the truth, Geralt of Rivia.If they mean to tangle him further into their magic with his name, it is a wasted effort.  He is Geralt now, but he has not always been.  It is something he drew on like a cloak to keep himself safe, and never dropped again.  It seems he is tangled enough, anyway.  A truth spell— strong.  Uncomplicated.  Not something Geralt has dealt with very often.Most mages would simply press into his thoughts, or at least try.  Sometimes they cannot, or will not; other people’s minds are not always pleasant places to be, witchers least of all.  Geralt least of all, and he doesn’t make it easy.It is nothing special, Geralt thinks, and then the whole world is spinning and the magic sinks into his blood.-Or: Geralt Gets Hit With A Truth Spell, And He Loves Jaskier And Yennefer A Lot, All The Time
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 52
Kudos: 731





	Flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besselfcn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/gifts).



> Everyone say 'thanks Lee' for showing me this kinkmeme prompt and giving me the Good Thoughts to flesh it out!

It is nothing special.

That is what Geralt thinks when the mage utters the spell, magic battering him like a storm. It is  _ powerful,  _ blowing back his hair and tugging at his clothes, but it is a simple thing.

_ Speak the truth, Geralt of Rivia. _

If they mean to tangle him further into their magic with his name, it is a wasted effort. He is Geralt now, but he has not always been. It is something he drew on like a cloak to keep himself safe, and never dropped again. It seems he is tangled enough, anyway. A truth spell— strong. Uncomplicated. Not something Geralt has dealt with very often.

Most mages would simply press into his thoughts, or at least try. Sometimes they cannot, or will not; other people’s minds are not always pleasant places to be, witchers least of all.  _ Geralt  _ least of all, and he doesn’t make it easy. 

This mage thinks Geralt is lying to him— later, it is hard to remember why. Hard to remember why he was out in the woods at all. Something about a stolen amulet, and a handful of necromancers. People often think Geralt has a hand in things he doesn’t know anything about and this isn’t any different. 

It is nothing special, Geralt thinks, and then the whole world is spinning and the magic sinks into his blood. Digs teeth into his bones. Cuts open his tongue. It is as strong as Yennefer’s magic, or very nearly so; all his thoughts are running out in response to the mage’s command, questions both asked and unasked. Everything he’s done that night, everything he’s seen. When he tries to stop talking his head spins, and aches.

His account of the evening isn’t what the mage wants to hear; he is simply in the wrong, at the wrong time. Geralt doesn’t have the things he needs— not the answers, or the amulet, or the power. The truth spills out of him like water being poured from a glass.

When he finally goes quiet the mage sighs and wave his hand dismissively.

“I am sorry, witcher. It seems I was mistaken,” he says, light coalescing in his hands. “You’re strong enough, and it shouldn’t last more than a few days. Hopefully you won’t get into too much trouble.” 

He sounds amused in a way that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. The light in his palms flares.

He vanishes into nothing; there is no portal, or puff of smoke. He is simply there, then the whole world shimmers, and he is gone again. 

Geralt is glad, except that he does not take his magic with him. He can feel it clinging, steeping through his blood like leaves leaching acid into tea. Even all alone in the forest, miles away from anyone, the truth is simmering inside. He is tired. He is lonely. Everything hurts.

He misses Yennefer and Jaskier, even though it has been less than a day since he’s seen them. They are waiting for him back at the inn, the three of them ready to head towards Kaer Morhen to wait out the worst of winter. There are other places Jaskier and Yennefer could go, but nowhere Geralt wouldn’t be miserable, and the two of them like staying at the keep more than they’re willing to admit. 

The magic in him swells until it will not be ignored, churning in his stomach and tingling in his palms. His eyes ache. It feels like he has been holding his breath too long, or gone too high in the mountains and gotten altitude sickness. His chest rises and falls too quickly. He clenches his hands into fists.

“I love them,” he says to no one at all, biting out the words. “I miss them. I want to go home.”

The press of the magic fades back, assuaged for the moment. He thinks of how much of his life he spends with his jaw clenched against things he cannot, will not, does not say. 

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses into the darkness. If he is lucky, the spell will have faded by the time he returns to the inn. 

Geralt is not lucky.

The magic follows him through the night like smoke.

-

Yennefer is standing in the open door of their room when he comes back, frowning at Geralt as her gaze roves over him. She can sense the magic; it’s got her brows furrowed, something dangerous alight in her eyes. They settle on his face, and Geralt feels power well up and overflow.

“You’re beautiful,”he says, but it isn’t enough to quell the magic inside. “I love you,” he adds, and that is better, even if there are still things sitting unsaid on his tongue and making his ears ring.

Yennefer blinks and lays her palm on his cheek as he steps into the room and closes the door.

“What happened,” she asks, even as he feels her slipping into thoughts to take the answer. 

It is something she is allowed to do when there is magic laid so heavily on Geralt. They have dealt with enough spells and rituals and curses to be wary. Knowing Yennefer is reading the events of the evening out of his head doesn’t do anything to assuage the need to tell her anyway.

“There was a mage in the woods when I went to find the cemetaur. On my way back. He seemed to think I was looking for him, or had something of his, I don’t… really remember everything now. He put a spell on me, that makes me—”

“Tell the truth, I can see that.”

Geralt can feel her magic now, seeking the edges of something inside him and trying to tug it out. He has borne worse from her, a thousand times. It is nothing really.

“That hurts,” he says before he can stop himself, brows drawing together in annoyance. “I don’t think it’s working. It feels like I’m going to be sick if you don’t stop.”

She blinks at him again, but her magic pulls at him for a few more long moments before easing away.

“There might be an elixir I can give you, but it probably wouldn’t work, and last time it made you sick.”

Jaskier is standing behind her now, looking Geralt over; for injuries, probably, but other than the magic he is remarkably untouched.

“So he put a… a truth spell on you, and then just, what? Fucked off?”

“He asked me some questions first. After that he apologized, told me the spell would wear off in a few days, and disappeared.”

Jaskier tugs at some of Geralt’s clothes, squinting as he decides, correctly, that the large rusty stain on Geralt’s shirt is actually just mud. Yennefer walks over to the vanity and starts rifling through glass bottles of elixirs; it’s hard to tell how many of them are magical and how many are just makeup. She isn’t overly worried, and so  _ Jaskier  _ isn’t overly worried.

Of the three of them, Yennefer is better at figuring out just how fucked they are in a crisis. 

Nowadays, at least.

“You seem well enough,” Jaskier says, a skeptical look on his face. “Truth spell, is it? Mmmm. Which of my songs is your favorite, then?”

Geralt grits his teeth, but it’s in vain.

“I like the ones you write about Yennefer and pretend are about someone else.  _ Violets,  _ and  _ To Breathe Her _ . _ Moonlit.”  _ Jaskier goes a little wide eyed. A slow smile spreads across his mouth. “You’re gorgeous when you make that face. Like you’re so pleased with yourself and you can’t contain it. I love you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops, and he lets out a bark of laughter.

“Oh, goddess. This is wonderful. I love you too, darling. You really did get hit with something strong.” Jaskier leans a shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed, head cocked to the side as he thinks. “Which of my outfits do you like best?” 

Geralt glares at Jaskier, but the words spill out all the same.

“I don’t like fancy clothes because I can’t see you under there. I like your simpler breeches because I can see your ass. I like it when you leave your shirts unlaced.”

Jaskier grins.

“Oho! A simple man with simple tastes, it seems. You always feign indifference like you don’t have an opinion about things but it’s obvious you do.” Yennefer is quiet, glass clinking as she searches through bottles, but there is tension in every inch of her. Jaskier hasn’t caught up to her, yet; isn’t thinking about when the spell wears off, and leaves Geralt feeling like he has been skinned alive. Jaskier is still smiling, running a palm down Geralt’s bicep. “Which of our little adventures do you remember the most fondly?” 

“The first few,” Geralt says, trying and failing to bite down on the rest. “In the beginning, when we first met, you did not want to leave me afterwards.”

Geralt closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the dizziness, because there is too much more the magic wants him to say. The world spins. His nose starts bleeding. Power runs through him like lightning until it feels like he is burning alive.

“Every day I wake up and expect to be alone,” he breathes, and it is like a dam has broken. “I don’t know why you both haven’t left me, yet. I keep waiting for you to go, and you stay, and I don’t deserve you.”

When he opens his eyes they are both staring. Yennefer’s mouth is flattened into an unhappy line. Jaskier’s smile is gone.

“I am so good at doing that,” Geralt continues, hands fisted at his sides. “I can always make you miserable, without even trying.”

Yennefer has a bottle in her hand when she stands and crosses over to him, but she doesn’t look pleased about it.

“I don’t have what I need to counteract this spell, and by the time I could put it together, it will likely be gone on its own. Do you want me to put you to sleep, Geralt?” 

She knows him so well. Knows how insufferable he will be when the magic wars off and he has laid himself achingly bare. 

Yennefer’s hair is mussed around her face. Her lips are swollen. Geralt can smell their arousal in the air, like they’d been passing the time in the bed together before he returned. The thought of them lazily making out under the covers, Jaskier’s hands under her skirts, is enough to make him shake.

“I want you to kiss me,” he says, so honest that it is like stepping out of a fire and into the pouring rain. “I want you both to kiss me. I want as much of you as I can get, because it will all be over one day, and I will be alone.”

Geralt lifts a palm to cover his face and fights the urge to run from the room. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, taking his face in both hands and coaxing it up. Geralt looks at him through his fingers, shamed; not his words, or his feelings, but how pathetic he sounds giving voice to them. “You are a fool if you think you are ever getting rid of me.” __

Jaskier kisses him, and Geralt opens for it. The honesty required of him is not limited to his words, it seems. 

His hands are honest as they clutch as Jaskier. His mouth is honest as he whines into Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier slides his hand down Geralt’s chest and palms him through his clothes. Yennefer is running her fingers through his hair.

“Tell us what you want, my love,” she says. Geralt breaks away from Jaskier with a groan, and Jaskier mouths down his throat instead.

“I want Jaskier to fuck me. Want you to sit on my face while he does.” 

Geralt’s eyes are closed again. He cannot bear to look at them. He wants to throw an arm over his face but he cannot bear to unwind his hands from their clothes. Jaskier makes a surprised noise, bordering on indignant.

“Geralt! Do you  _ like  _ being fucked?”

Jaskier has fucked him before, on more than one occasion, but usually Geralt takes the lead. Now he is nodding before Jaskier finishes speaking, cheeks flushing bright.

“Of course I like being fucked, I just don’t want to ask for it. I want to make you both feel good.”

Yennefer is unlacing the ties on Geralt’s shirt. Jaskier grinding his palm in circles against Geralt through his breeches.

“You think it doesn’t feel good to fuck you, darling?” Jaskier asks. It’s breathy and suggestive but what pours out of Geralt in answer is neither of those things.

“I don’t understand why you want to touch me at all. I’m… I’m a monster, and you’re both so beautiful. You could have anyone. One day you will come to your senses, and wonder why you spend each night in bed with  _ me.”  _

He can feel the look Jaskier and Yennefer share, even as he clenches his eyes shut tighter.

“Geralt, I do not say this often, and it pains me to say it now, but Jaskier is right. You are such a fool.”

He knows he is a fool. She does not have to say it.

They put him on his back in the bed they’ve been sharing the past few nights and give him everything he asks for, even as he tries to hide from them. It is easier not to speak with his face tucked between Yennefer’s legs, licking into her cunt as Jaskier fucks him ragged. Easier, but he still pulls away to murmur into her skin, arms wrapped around her thighs like he is scared she will get away.

_ You feel so good, Jaskier. I love it when you fuck me. Yen, I love to taste you. You’re so beautiful. _

_ I love you, I love you, I love you.  _

_ I can’t believe you’re mine. _

When they have finally finished with him— used Yen’s magic and finished with him again— he is weary enough that the words come more slowly. He lays between them in bed, Yennefer’s fingers in his hair, his face shoved into Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier is still asking questions from time to time, in spite of all Yennefer’s glares and the way Geralt tenses. He doesn’t mean to be malicious, or take advantage.

He just can’t resist. 

With the two of them pressed against him, Geralt knows what that’s like.

“When did you realize I was in love with you?” 

It sounds like something idle that has only just come to mind, but Geralt can feel the tension in Jaskier, too. 

There is an honesty in the question that makes the magic in Geralt sing.

“Since the first day we met,” Geralt says, hiding his face in Jaskier’s skin. “You have always wanted me, and I have always known.”

Jaskier trails his fingers down Geralt’s back. The gesture is full of affection, but his voice is only a whisper.

“When did you realize you were in love with me?” Jaskier asks, and something in Geralt breaks.

“Since the first time I heard you sing.”

Yennefer has always had the advantage of  _ knowing  _ how Geralt feels about her. It wasn’t easier to accept the depth of his emotion for her, but he didn’t have to say it for her to understand. With Jaskier, it is harder.

Geralt is not good with any of this; feelings, or words, or the way he feels weak in the face of them both. 

Not because Jaskier and Yennefer make him weak, but because he is afraid to fail them.

“Why wouldn’t you say something?” Jaskier finally asks, quiet enough that it is hard to hear. “I wanted you for so long. You wanted me, too. I don’t understand.”

Geralt doesn’t fight the magic, anymore. He is too tired for anything but the truth.

“All I am good for is breaking things. I didn’t want to break you, too.”

There is more to say— it will hurt so much to lose Jaskier. His life is a fragile, fleeting thing; for Geralt to hold it in his hands is more terrifying than any monster he has raised his sword against. It all comes out at once, Geralt babbling helpless things into Jaskier’s chest. Into Yennefer’s palm.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, like he is wounded. Geralt can see Yennefer petting through Jaskier’s hair out of the corner of his eyes.

“I love you,” Geralt says, because it is the most sincere thing in him. “I love you,” he says again. It is easier every time.

“I love you too,” Jaskier says, and kisses his temple.

_ You know I love you,  _ Yennefer says, the words coiling through his mind. He is tired enough that sleep comes easily.

-

When he wakes, he can still feel the magic in him. He’s curled into Yennefer’s chest, an arm around her waist. Geralt blinks up at her; she is watching him with bright, worried eyes. Jaskier isn’t in bed behind him anymore, or even in the room, and Geralt wonders where he has gone. Yennefer isn’t concerned about it, though, and there are more pressing matters.

“You’re stunning,” he says, feeling power tug deep in his chest. “Your skin is so soft, and you smell so good, and your hair is so fucking pretty.” The energy in him is almost preening.

Geralt has the urge to cover his face with hands and groan, but that would mean taking them off of her, and he doesn’t want to let go. Yennefer smiles and brushes his hair out of his eyes.

“Knowing that you’re thinking all these things about me and hearing you say them are more different than I would have expected,” she says. She sinks her fingers in his hair, and runs a thumb back and forth over his cheek. “I forget sometimes that Jaskier can’t simply  _ know  _ all the adoring things you think of him and never speak aloud.”

Geralt turns his face into her palm and kisses it.

“Sometimes I forget, too. He deserves better than me. I want to tell him how perfect he is but I don’t have the words. I am too selfish to let either of you go, but I think you’d be happier without me.”

Yennefer scowls.

“You’re an idiot if you think that’s true.”

Geralt shoves his face into the curve of her throat.

“You have left me before. You could do it again.”

Yennefer tugs gently at his hair. Presses her mouth to it.

“Well, at the very least, Jaskier would never.”

Jaskier comes back with breakfast, crawls into Geralt’s lap, and asks what he wants. 

“Kiss me,” he says, and that, at least, is easy.

-

They put off leaving for Kaer Morhen. The magic clings longer than Yennefer expects. Geralt tries to put some distance between them, but Jaskier finds him at night, tucked into some quiet corner of the stable close to Roach or sitting outside under the stars. When he speaks to Roach, it is the same as always. The spell has not changed any of that; she’s beautiful, she’s a good girl, she works so hard.

Jaskier pretends he is offended, but he loves her, too.

The rest of the time, with Yennefer and Jaskier, Geralt does not know what is going to come out of his mouth until he’s already speaking. 

Mostly, it is shameless praise. He tells Jaskier and Yennefer how gorgeous they are, how talented, how clever. He compliments Yennefer’s magic, and Jaskier’s voice. Asks Jaskier to sing him to sleep. Shameless isn’t the right word.

The shame is still there, under his skin. 

He is not ashamed to want them.

Geralt is ashamed of himself.

If it were only soft words of affection, it would not be so bad, but there is a lot more. Lives Geralt has taken without meaning to; people he couldn’t save. There is so much blood on Geralt’s hands, and it spills out of his mouth in stark words, so honest that he feels it in his chest like a knife.

A little boy buried under a collapsed wall. A woman who caught a blast of his magic instead of the monster he’d aimed it at. Frantic little breaths, red smeared across their mouths. He might as well have put his sword in them; the results were the same.

There are dozens of faces burned into his memory, and once he starts thinking of them, he cannot stop again. He keeps talking. His nose bleeds when he tries to quiet himself. His breathing hitches, and his hands shake.

Geralt has always hated himself. Has always looked at the edge of his sword, and thought about sinking it between his own ribs. Has always thought the world would be a better place without him in it. 

_ I wanted to die when I was brought to Kaer Morhen. Wanted to die a thousand times during training.  _

_ I wanted to die during the Grasses, and every day since then. It is always there, waiting for me to give in, even after all these years. _

_ I am happy now, but I am still a monster. _

It sounds worse out loud. Sounds worse in his voice than in his thoughts.

Feels worse, the way it strikes Jaskier like a blow.

The way it  _ doesn’t  _ strike Yennefer; she already knows. The magic in him seethes, and swells.

They pull Geralt into their arms, and kiss him until it is hard to breathe. They don’t have to ask what he wants, anymore.

  
Geralt simply tells them, and they give him everything, and it is easy.

-

Geralt shoves his face into his pillow at night, when exhaustion is clawing at him and refusing to let go. His last thoughts before he drifts to sleep are always of Yennefer and Jaskier, and it is embarrassing to say them over and over again. All the little things he loves about them. How he misses them when they’re gone. 

_ I want you to sing to me, Jaskier. _

At night he always wants Jaskier to sing, and so Jaskier always does.

-

He sits in the tavern listening to Jaskier sing again the next evening. It is not a particularly emotional song— it’s upbeat and cheerful. Jaskier smiles, fingers flying over his lute, voice carrying loud and bright. Everyone is grinning. Jaskier’s joy is infectious. It is what has made him famous— a beautiful voice, earnest words, and skill to match them both.

Geralt is so proud of him. He loves Jaskier so much it hurts. He says it, and it is swallowed up by the noise around him. There are tears slipping quietly down his cheeks, but no one seems to notice. He paws them away with the heel of his hands.

When Jaskier is finished and comes close enough, Geralt pulls him down and kisses him.

-

When the spell finally fades, he almost doesn’t notice. 

It is terrifyingly easy to open his eyes,  _ you are so beautiful. I love you.  _

He says it every morning, now, because he is always thinking it. Sometimes he says it to Yennefer. Sometimes, to Jaskier. The words are a little different, but the sentiment is the same.

That morning is no different, except there is no surge of contended power in him. Just  _ I love you, Jaskier,  _ and the rightness of it, devoid of any magic. Geralt blinks, and thinks of all the soft and heated things he would normally say; that he wants Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth. That he wants Yennefer’s tugging at his hair.

He doesn’t say them, and there is no dizziness. No bloody nose, no stomach churning need to speak. 

“The spell is gone,” he says, and Yennefer and Jaskier both sigh with relief. The roads are already perilous, piled high with ice and snow in places, and it will take a lot of magic to get them safely to the keep if they don’t travel soon.

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier says with a groan. “I didn’t relish the thought of spending the winter in this ratty little inn. The wine is  _ awful.”  _ Yennefer hums her agreement, still mostly asleep. Jaskier blinks down at Geralt, drowsy and smiling. “Still, it had its moments. Tell me how pretty I am, Geralt. One last time.”

Geralt sighs and closes his eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Jaskier. And only mostly full of yourself.”

They sleep a while longer. When they wake up, Jaskier settles between Geralt’s thighs and fucks him slowly while he shakes. He makes punched out noises without meaning to— he is so used to letting them free, now. Geralt cannot hold them back. Yennefer swallows the sounds, and pets through his hair.

The road to Kaer Morhen is long, but at the end of it, is home.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, guys!


End file.
